Into the Heart of Zambia - Destination Kasama.

A Morning in Lusaka

A familiar bird chirping in a tree outside my lodging window woke me. It was a sound I had heard so often but couldn’t tell the owner of such a sweet voice.  I knew I should be on my way travelling north, but I did not feel like getting out of bed. These were holidays and sleep was part of the adventure. I drifted between sleep and being fully awake as I thought of the 1000 or so kilometers that lay ahead of the day’s trip.

It has always been my habit from high school to wake up at the second cock crow, something that has stuck with me even though I periodically treated myself to a good sleep. My way of life on this matter is that good sleep is a good antidote to one’s health. So, I insist on not less than seven hours of sleep. Generally I am an early bird to bed except in difficult circumstances. If the anecdotal evidence of my sleeping habit is anything to go by, I am grateful to God for a healthy body augmented by weekly exercises, a relic of my younger days when I played a mélange of sports: rugby, lawn tennis, football, badminton, and volleyball. I even tried cricket at one time many years ago.

I rolled out of bed. I had to type my ride report. My first problem was the sockets in this part of the world were the square-type. My computer had round a plug with round pins an oversight that was to affect the progress of writing my ride-reports. Frustrated, I went into the bathroom, which had the largest water dispenser I have yet seen — the size of a platter in rather a unique bathroom made of stone, wall to wall. It was also the first place I had a real encounter with mosquitoes on this trip. Fortunately I had slept under a net; however, in the office of the proprietor there were swarms of them. If I hate certain living things, I am not ashamed to say gnats top that list. I was not going, in the tradition of St Francis of Assisi, to call them brother mosquitoes. Don’t the statistics of the WHO say they kill more people than combined HIV/AIDs, tuberculosis and a host of other anti-human vermins? These thoughts preoccupied my mind until I left the bathroom.

I had left the bike unpacked the previous evening and so it was easy to get ready and going. In the meantime, I wanted some more of Zambian Kwacha for petrol and so I had to find a Bureau de change. Zambia is one odd place where the use of the dollar is not an offence. I paid my lodge rent with a 20$ bill, but I was not sure this would be the case up country, so the need for Zambian Kwacha. The goodness of the human heart came to my rescue. I asked John, who had watched over my bike in the night. The man had been extremely kind. He loaned me his phone to send some test messages to my various contacts: Andy and family. I wanted to send just two text messages. But he said I could have the phone for the entire night. I was humbled. I remember joking – if you girlfriend calls and you don’t reply or some strange voice answers, what would she think of you. He laughed and said “you are my guest; take the phone”. The following morning he also cleaned my screen and helped me perform my routine ritual of securely tying everything on the bike. At this point a small crowd had gathered. After many words or appreciation, I set out to find the mall, which was on my route out of the city.

I arrived early; the mall was to open at 8:15am. I struck conversation with a well dressed security man like you would find in any metropolitan city. Our topics were diverse. Every time, I chatted with someone, the conversation would begin with the bike. For most folks, it was fascinating to find, a ‘black’ man touring on a bike. In general, and only from anecdotal evidence, tourism is considered a ‘white’ man’s activity. I often wondered whether the enjoyment of the good things of life is the preserve of certain races. Well, the question that was asked repeatedly went something like this:

“You mean you have come all the way from South Africa?”

“And I enjoyed every moment of it”, was my standard answer.

“On a bike”, the conversation would continue.

"Yes, in flesh, bone, blood and metal" I would reply.

This was usually followed with the nodding or shaking of the head, to which I would put a positive interpretation to imply agreement or wonderment. In the meantime, the Bureau De Change opened and the security man literally led me by hand and explained that this man is travelling and needs some kwacha. No paper work just the exchange of currencies – my 100$ for an equivalent in kwacha. Loaded, and in the company of my new acquaintance, I went to ShopRite and stocked up on water, samosas, rolls, and biscuits. It was now about 8:30am and I was anxious to set off. I bid my guest farewell thanked him with a 5000K and was enroute to my next destination in northern Zambia.

I eased myself into the journey gradually building up speed. Zambia is a unique country. The fact that it is wooded right from Kazungula provided such a contrast with the familiar South African Veld. T2 is the highway cutting though Zambia from south to North (part of the Great North Road) passes through tropical forests that stretch as far as the eye can see — different from the wooded shrubs of Northern Botswana. While I drunk in all this beauty with my eyes, and breathed in the clean air, most of this part of the journey was hard core riding on a very good road through Momba, Kabwe and Kapiri Mposhi where I stopped to have a good meal and rehydrate. I know I don’t make much fuss about eating but when I have a chance to eat, I never do it the military style, namely in a hurry, for it was most certainly the case that my next meal would be the next day.

After energizing myself, I set out to enjoy the ride and Scorpion eagerly and impressively yielded with her excellent performance. Man and machine churned away miles and miles of road. We travelled northeastwards, through Mkushi, Serenje, Kalonje and at Mpika, I turned northwards off T2 into M1. Along the way I found lots of honey on sale. I bought a litter. Anyone who has eaten unadulterated honey, as God intended it to be, will know that it is the sweetest stuff one can lay hands on. I also came across the biggest mushrooms I had ever seen — as large as a medium size tray. I remember taking photos but I don’t know what happened. Well, after refueling, now late afternoon, I set off. I was anxious it was getting late and my eleventh commandment is never to ride at night. Surprisingly the road was tarred and great. My target was to reach Kasama — the provincial capital of the region. In this part of the world, the sun sets early and by six o’clock it was dark.

On a clear day with the stars bright in the sky looking down on mother earth, I came across hundreds of young men and women hanging out on the road chilling away the evening. What a contrast! What would the young stars in a city such as Johannesburg be engaged in at this time? This was Bembaland and Bemba was the lingua franca. I speak English, but not everyone speaks it as I soon discovered. In one place, I stopped to enquire the distance to Kasama — my GPs had given up its ghost, a terrible inconvenience. Well, we could hardly communicate. The 20 year olds could hardly speak a word of English and neither could I speak Bemba. In next place I stopped they simply bolted away, every one scattering into different directions. I was intrigued. I could not understand why they ran away: was it the bike, the manner I was dressed, the fact that I spoke English or some unknown superstition. I chuckled and rode off.

By now, the Zambian Sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon and the pitch darkness enveloped me like a blanket. I had reduced my speed to a moderate 80km. I realised that my tall screen was actually a nuisance. For some reason it was obstructing my sight and vision to the extent that I stood to look over it. How odd? It was pitch dark that I decided that I was quits riding tonight. I would stop where my heart told me to stop as soon as possible.

I came across three teens and decided to try my luck. After salutations and pronouncing my names, I requested to see their father if he was at home. The house was good looking and tucked behind a green hedge. The teens response was “yes”. Promptly one of them ran off. Soon an elderly man came up to me. I presumed that the youngster had communicated my intentions. When I said I was requesting permission to pitch my tent, he said there was a primary school three kilometers down the road. Meanwhile, the youngster had returned with a glass of water in beer glass which I gladly accepted but it mystified me that he had brought water. I never mentioned water anywhere in our conversation. I drank the water and thanked the old man for his time, water and rode away into the darkness.

“Why didn’t the old man reject my request?” I was angry, but did not know why. I didn’t think the old man's refusal to be my host was anything worth losing one temper over. But combined with the fatigue of riding, a hot day, hunger anything was possible.  I settled in the saddle and took the old man's refusal as an omen to reach Kasama. I resigned myself to this task. I might have ridden for 70km before I started seeing lights in the distance. I consoled myself the day would nevertheless come to an end. It was a relief to finally reach my destination. I had ridden 865km and had run out of enthusiasm to go any further.

When you arrive at a destination after the sun has set, it is kind of hard to figure out the geography. I decided to follow my heart — ride through the town until your heart tells you to stop — something like tossing a coin but even better. That I did and came to a brightly lit place which I assumed was some sort of lodging. I went to ask if they could give me permission to pitch my tent. The guard went to fetch the manager. Good fortunes smiled on me. By now sleep was beckoning. The manager, Richard a soft spoken and a very polite man personally directed and helped me to pitch the tent under a lamp post in a secluded area of his compound, of course, after he had heard my story that I was a tourist travelling through eleven African countries. His property was a hotel facility still under construction.

Nearby the aroma of roasting stake wafted through the air — how the mind works when it smells good food. I simply had to eat and an order was without further ado. Meanwhile, the guard showed me the ablutions and where to find water. Even though I was dog-tired, I did not want to appear rude, so I spent some time chatting with them about the places I had visited. The stories flowed helped by a local beer who name I don’t remember.

They were kind enough to realise I was tired and allowed me to retire to bed or rather my tent. I had no cares whatsoever. I just wanted to sleep. My philosophy of performance is ‘one day at time’; sleep is all I wanted to do now. I lay down to say thank you Father for the wonderful ride and some where in the process  I promptly passed out.

The Good Folk of Lusaka

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In Mbala just before leaving for Tanzania

I sat in traffic jam as time crawled by.  If you think Johannesburg is gridlocked with traffic jams, wait until you get to Lusaka.  I was very thirsty, hungry and was beginning to feel very hot.  Cities can be intimidating, even though I live in one of the biggest on the continent, I felt uneasy in Lusaka.  Where do I spend the night was the question that was beleaguering my mind?  I could sense eyes peering at me from the windows of the cars around me.  I could also sense the respect from the drivers, for every time I moved or tried to change lanes, even taxi drivers let me pass.  It was humbling to know that there was lots of goodness around me.  It was as though they were telling me: we know you are tired.  How enlivening!

Scorpion Always attract People in Mbala

I went around central Lusaka for a while. My purpose was either to locate a place to pitch my tent or find some cheap place to lodge.  What was immediately noticeable was that there were massive construction projects in Lusaka.  I could also see from the well manicured lawns, modern houses, high walls with electric fences and well groomed guards.  I knew I was riding through the posh suburbs of Lusaka.  It was entirely accidental.  If there was any resemblance with the city I live in, it had to do with shopping malls. 

I recall denouncing the words of an Australian Jesuit priest who unashamedly told me that Johannesburg was like Brisbane or any large city in Australia.  I asked him why it was not the other way round.  In other words Australian cities set the standard.  It is common to find folks who insensitively make themselves or their issues reference point.  It is extremely irritating. 

To return to our story, I could feel the pangs of hunger urging me to find something to eat.  I had drunk lots of water but had not a morsel of bread since Livingstone.   First I found an internet café and sent a few emails and posted on my web-blog.  Eventually, I turned into a mall and what do I see: Debonair’s Pizza.  The world was indeed a small Place.  If you remember the comedy "The God's Must be Crazy 1" and the Coca-Cola bottle dropping from the sky, you know what I mean.  I ordered a medium size Pizza. In the interim, as is my custom, I approached a man who introduced himself as Lukas.  He said “you are unusually dressed”.

“Thank you Lukas,” said I.  “I am a rider, just arrived from Livingstone.  Would you know of a place I can pitch my tent or find some decent but cheap lodging?”

“There are plenty of places but you’ll have to look around” said he.

“And what is the security situation like,” I asked?

He spent the several minutes painting a bleak picture of Lusaka’s security problems which I listened to half-heartedly.  Don’t forget I live in J’burg.  It seem like security was his favourite topic.

I collected my pizza and was on my way out, when  I met two white men having a beer.  I introduced myself with the intention of asking them if I could pitch my tent on their grounds.  Once I said I was from Jozi (Johannesburg), it was all smiles. They even offered a beer which I declined.  The older man, Mr. Van Niekerk man was from Jozi and the younger one Mr. Smith was from Zimbabwe.  Both offered to help.  Van Niekerk made a few phone calls and said there was a place I could lodge if I so desired.  Mr. Smith offered to drive me to a campsite.  In the end, a woman sitting on an adjacent table drew my attention and introduced herself as Maria. She said she overheard our conversation and wanted to help.  She called a number and said the proprietor had said there was a place called the Goldengate down the road for 97,000 kwacha (19$).  Some of these numbers can be huge, but with very little monetary value.

Meanwhile, I thanked the white gentlemen.  Just before I departed, they asked me why I trusted “mzungu” (Whiteman).  I said sometimes I trust them, sometimes I don’t and left it at that.  I was tired and part of my mind had shut down to even consider such an idealistic subject.  The active part of my mind was thinking about tucking me in a warm bed.

Maria gave directions.  After giving her my card, I thanked her and arranged with a taxi driver to guide me to the lodge for 15000kwacha.  Goldengate was co-owned by a German married to a Congolese lady.  He was a soft spoken man who was also very polite.  It was a short drive from the mall.  I was so excited to have a room for the night, a hot bath and my pizza.  How everyday things can bring so much joy.  I recalled Alistair, back in the 1990s, an English  tourist driving across African in a 1970 Landrover, to whom I offered some tea, with bread and jam.  He said he had not tasted jam in since he left the UK.  The joy in him was simply total.  It was of such purity that you could not doubt its sincerity. 

Well, just before I slept, I used the night guard’s phone to send couple of text messages. Every time I used someone’s phone I gave them 5$ worth of airtime. I had my phone on roaming but the last time it worked was in Gaborone.  All I remember was thanking the good Lord for being my protector. Sleep so sweet, and sweeter than the sweetest thing was the only thing on my mind.  Sleep beckoned; I yielded drifted off yonder into the unconscious.

Appraising Scorpion ― My Love.

 The Jewel on a Highway in Botswana

I fell in love, heel over head with Scorpion from the moment I laid eyes on her — she became the jewel of my heart. Yet being the scrupulous person I am, I still candidly weighed the odds of choosing her over a Kawasaka KLR 650 and a BMW GS 650. She had this appeal about her that made my heart pound. In considering anything that is going to be of a personal matter, reason and emotions must marry to provide maximum appreciation. Reason came from researching especially the stromtropper. Emotions came from the fact that every time I looked at her, she did something to me that other bikes did not — the essence of choice. I knew she was the perfect match and would carry my heart through eleven African countries. Well to spare you the details, we finally got engaged and married. I spent the rest of the time adorning her for the trip.

Come the departure day on the 4th December, she was simply ready to indulge in my fantasy. She seemed reluctant at first on our first leg of the trip — I guess because of the gusts of crosswinds blowing: 20-30 knots. However, once I set out through Botswana, she yielded to every encouragement I gave her. After riding 1085 kms in a couple of hours with spare capacity for more mileage, it was obvious in the depth of my heart that she was the lady of my life. She had passed that test and much more including being laden like a donkey but still possessing the ability to move effortlessly.

Scorpion  and Me a Spectacle in Mbala Zambia

I had never ridden her on unfamiliar terrain. The Livingstone-Lusaka opportunity put her to this test. But fear more than anything else pressed me into riding her as if she was disabled; understandably it was the unfamiliar terrain and the lack of experience on such terrain that were to blame. Once courage and confidence took charge of me; I let go. I met every road challenge with gusto. The road was being re-tarred and was in its worst state. It was full of potholes in which more than a quarter of the wheel would disappear. It had loose soil and gravel that made riding unbalanced and risky enterprise. Worst of all, it was wet in some areas with speed humps that you realised were there only after you had passed that spot Indeed on one occasion, I went over a hump and was almost thrown clear of the bike, but was saved by the way I held her as my lover. It was a firm grip on both the handle bars and the tank using hands and knees respectively. 

As far as the Eye can See ― In Botswana

Scorpion amazingly adapted very well; she firmly commandeered the road and took control of it. And with a mind that adapts, I begun experiencing the thrill of riding now that I’d come full-circle. I think it is a sensation that any one in a relationship with machine: pilots, Formula One drivers, speed boat racers, among others can identify with. Among other things, she was surprisingly nimble. She willingly responded with ease to my maneuvers to throw her around. Scorpion is not a super bike but she will outpace most average cars. What is more, her size allows her to be squeezed where most cars will go unenthusiastically.

Soon, I was out of the dirt portion of the road and driving kilometers and kilometers of tarred road running through thick forests. Sometimes I would push her into racing speeds of 180 km and sometimes come down to 90 kms. I realised that the best speeds for cruising was 120kms. It was pure bliss driving through Choma, Monze and Mazabuka where it started raining. This did not dampen my spirit. I rode on stopping only to fuel-up and to wear the rain-suit. Sometime before Chirundu-Lusaka junction, on a steep slope, a hauler truck had jack-knifed and blocked the road on both directions. You can picture me arriving and stealing the limelight for just that moment. Even those attempting to move the trailer had to stop to see the spectacle on the yellow bike go by. I was waved to pass and that moment marked the apex of my riding day as I gently eased the bike out of the mass of on-lookers.

In fair appraisal, it is right to say that Scorpion had one downside thought in all these maneuvers, if I was too happy and fervent with the throttle, she grew extremely thirsty.

I arrived in Lusaka about 5:45 pm (Monday). It was a bad time to arrive. Lusaka was in the grips of traffic-jam as every worker was trying to get home. Given my panniers, I was a lame duck moving only with the traffic, exhausted but having had a very satisfying day of riding and grateful to God for bringing without incident to Lusaka.

Let me say in winding up this episode that on many an occasion, Scorpion proved that I was right in my choice of her; she exceeded my expectations.

The First Dirt Road Experience

Rachael and Team just before My departure for Lusaka

  

 Grateful to Rachael and Team

I opened my eyes, and it was still dark outside my ‘home’.  I was awoken by a loud cock crow on its watch.  It was a beautiful sound.  He was somewhere out there claiming the right to his territory as cocks all do.  When you live in a city such as Johannesburg, these are some of the things you miss. But the one thing ‘Johanesburgers’ can take pride in are the many trees that Johannesburg is renowned for. One obvious advantage is the ‘perch’ the trees provide for birds of all description.  If the Dutch created Holland, then ‘Johanesburgers’ created the ‘forests’ of Johannesburg. They are visible on a clear day when you came to land at Oliver Tambo International Airport.  My neighbour Jennifer has had birds’ feed in two places on her compound for years. It’s an amazing and a beautiful sight to see small birds of all sizes and colour converge on her compound to feed: birds clothed in yellow, brown, red, orange or black plums sometimes eating peacefully or sometimes fighting over food. They were doing what birds do best —foraging.

As the bird thoughts ran through my mind, I must have lain on my ‘bed’ drifting in and out of sleep for another hour.  I also prayed for a safe trip further north.  I was in no particular hurry today.  I knew that 524km of road to Lusaka lay ahead of me. 

It has been sheer joy riding up to this point.  I was aware that with me I carried the dreams of many a rider who would have wished to be on a similar trip. In addition, I carried the dreams of folks who love sheer adventure or the story of good adventure.  I also have many friends and colleagues following the story on my web-blog; it astounded me on the last count that I had 513 visits all over the world.  Obviously, the ride was not just mine; it was also for them for different reasons. But importantly apart from my adventure, it was also for Malgat, who I had the inkling he was watching over me. 

I crawled out of the sleeping bag reluctantly.  The rest at Gaborone had been most rejuvenating, but the body was still tired. I had to bath and pack.  This was one of the pains I endured every morning: to secure everything tightly on the bike in waterproof material.  As I stepped out of the tent Michael, who I met the previous night was there waiting to greet me. He was an amiable and kind man of about 35. He called himself the caretaker of the property.  He was willing to help at every turn. We struck up friendship on my arrival. He showed me the bath, which was not a very clean environment; I am not complaining— just stating the fact.  It was part of the travel. 

After the bath, I put everything in bags and secured them onto Scorpion. When it came to the tent, the outside sheet had collected dew.  The instructions were: “don’t park when moist”.  The day was overcast.  It meant a long wait. Patience was not going to help today.  I used my towel to dry it, packed it. 

Meanwhile, I noticed, it was now about 7:30 am, many pretty girls arriving. “Michael”, said I “how come many pretty girls are here this morning?”  He laughed and said “you have a good eye. The boss trusts ladies only for his business.  He claims they don’t steal as much as men do.  And if they should steal, they tell all when threatened with a police case, and spare everyone much trouble”.  On the contrary he added, “Men are difficult”.  He went on, “the other advantage is that women attract men to the club and the men spend their money here for whatever reason”.

I chuckled.  My thoughts had drifted away from the current subject.  I thought this boss had judged men harshly.  But this was his experience.  My experience was utterly different.  It is true the best people in my life were women, which include my late mother (May she rest in peace!) and a host of friends and girls.  By the same token, the worst people in my life were women, Angels on the one hand and something unspeakable on the other hand. And this is the point I wish to emphasise: it is not a gender question — man or woman. It is the goodness of heart and the capacity to evince it which is my concern.  You could be a bishop and you are such a bad person of your lot to the extent that even the devil will not be your friend.  You could be a ‘pauper’ but having the largest human heart.  It will suffice to say, individuals are judge according to their deeds and not their gender.

Famished, it was time to have breakfast.  Is this what they call an English breakfast: toast with butter, ham, eggs, cereals and tea?   Since I slept with an empty stomach, eating was vital this morning to replenish lost energy.  I was now feeling pressed to depart; I ate hurriedly.  We posed for photos and after much hugging and wishing we had more time together and gentle smiles.  I was on my way to Lusaka; it was 11:00 am.

Immediately, I was on a dirt road. I always pump my tyres hard and this worried me, yet I kept the pressure high.  The road was so bad that I rode between 10-40kms speed initially.  It turned out that this was a 135km stretch. After I mastered some confidence and on portions of the road which were good, I reached speeds of 100km.  Then the first sign of engineering trouble manifested itself.  After the first 25kms I became aware of a rattling noise.  I heard this same noise en route to Kazungula on a dirt stretch but could not point its source.  I inspected the bike from front to back and noticed the plates holding the rear axle adjustments device were loose.  How did I miss this during the pre-trip inspection?  After I tightened them, the noise disappeared. 

Comfortably ensconced on the saddle, I begun enjoying the machine: (my Scorpion).  In capable hands she will perform as best as she is engineered.  In addition, travelling solo, I had laden her with a lot of stuff including 10 liters of extra petrol. In summing this episode, I wish to say that no sane wife or husband compares her partner to another.  Along this line of thought, I will merely extol Scorpion’s virtues on the basis of her performance in the next episode.   

The Warmth of the Human Heart

 

Sleeping Quarters

I rode from Gaborone (Botswana) to Kazungulu (Zambia) covering a distance of 1085km from a 4:00am to 2:30pm. This means that ideally I could have ridden on much further. Scorpion had won my heart without any reservations; she made me proud. As a machine, she has been flawless and consistent in her performance making my heart grow fonder each passing day I spent in her company. But I wish to speak of her on another occasion.

In my earlier post, I said that the process of crossing the border at Kazungula was a nightmare, firstly because of the numerous documents I had to complete; the many accompanying fees and taxes, which were always not clear but mandatory. At Tlakweng (Botswana) it was simple: 110 Pula for road tax. Neither did the large Zambian currency denomination make matters easier. Secondly, because of the number of officials and pseudo –officials I had to deal with — everyone vying for a piece of me. I had to go into several offices to do different things; it was all confusing. When the process was finally completed, it was 5:00pm. I still had to pay George who, I must admit, facilitating the process of documentation — running from one office to another to provide support. He was a good man who was trying to earn a decent living. He told me that the government was not helping very much with jobs. Well, he had actually gone as far as making some of the payments using his own money — he provided official receipts. The problem started when he inflated figures. It could have gone unnoticed except that in his haste to milk me of my hard earned cash he started contradicting himself either lured by greed or rather in thinking I was naive. I have a good ear for faults in someone's logic. I pointed this out and an argument ensued. In the meantime his friends started to gather around us. It was time to conclude this deal. In the end, I refunded his money 40$ and gave him another 10$ for his services. At this point he was yelling and cursing that I was being unfair. I told him he was a good man and I was grateful that he had helped me, but to try and steal from me was no virtue, and that in so doing, he had cancelled his blessings. He kept demanding for more and was increasingly becoming hysterical. I was anxious to leave for Livingstone, I simply rode off into the sunset

It was now drizzling lightly; I was very tired and hungry. The chicken I ate at Francistown was long digested. But now I just wanted to get to Livingstone. The road was paved and good. When I am tired, I ride at slower speeds. I cruised at 80km per hour and covered the 66 odd kilometers in no time. I went through the city centre and to Livingstone Falls. The receptionist, a gorgeous Zambian lady was kind to direct me to a decent money changer to change my dollars for Kwacha. I paid another 10$ entrance fees and what a sight to behold.

They said Dr. David Livingstone was the first man to discover the falls. With all due respect to him, what about the indigenous folks living in the vicinity? Since this ride report is not about the morality of this statement, a discussion will not ensue.

I still had to find a place to lay this tired body. One thing you will appreciate is that it is not always easy to find a place to pitch a tent for reasons of personal security. I rode around town checking out the lodges and hotels. In one hotel a night was 120$. The lodges went for not less than 50$. If I stayed in such places, my trip would soon come to an end. After three attempts, it was now dark; I was anxious, I came to a place where my gut feelings told me this was it. I met Rachael at the reception, who said it was 200,000 kwacha (roughly 40$) a night. I hesitated. She asked: “what I was going to offer”. I said that I would rent a place to pitch my tent. She said ok. One of the things I set out to do during this trip is to rely on human goodness. I have met with it so far. This is a major theme of this Odyssey. Rachael was a very sweet person to say the least. Bless her Lord!

I set up the tent where she indicated, nothing occupied my mind more than sleep. I didn’t care about eating; I managed a Heineken though. It was the first time I was going to sleep in the tent. It turned out to be comfortable just like it is at home. The inflatable mattress was a deluxe. Apart from the humid and stuffy night, I did not need the use of my sleeping bag until the wee hours of the morning, I slept soundly. I remember the last thing on my mind was thanking God for bringing me this far. I even dreamt of my favourite food — grilled potatoes and roast beef. Delicious!

From Gaborone to Kazungula

 With Love from Francis Town 

I set off at 4:00 am heading for Kazungula border from Gaborone. I was deeply grateful that the Jonathans had persuaded me to stay. I was feeling refreshed and ready to ride on forever. I started as is my custom with a prayer and dashed to shower — a cold one. I relished every drop of water as it rolled off my dark tan skin. It was possible this was my last decent bath for days to come. In addition, my late mother, bless her Lord, used to say do something when you can; you simply never know. As it were, during this trip bathing became a luxury; I was going to live rough.

 

The Ferry on The Great Zambezi River    

 My Sleeping Quarters  in Livingstone Zambia

As I cruised down the A3 Highway, I could not help thinking what a lucky man I was to have Jonathan for a friend. We had known each other for over ten years.  During my visit we spoke from our hearts like good ol friends do. We had prayed together in the morning and I had hugged them reluctantly, for parting is often heart rending. I roared off without looking back. I knew they would abide with me in prayers.

I was grateful for my Zumo (Garmin GPS). One can almost ride blind and trust that it will take you there — the miracle of human ingenuity. These devices work yet they can also be the joy and the cause of misery. Well now it was working: I followed every instruction it beamed at me as I rode at a modest 80Km per hour to warm up the bike. The sky was velvet black, the road was well lit and as the reflectors that mark the road bounced the light from my headlight, the night slowly turned into day.

A couple of miles, I came across a car parked with hazard lights on. I stopped; there was a man inside. It was still dark and it was hard to tell whether he was just sleeping or something had happened to him. Another driver stopped and we both tried to get the man to respond. It went on for a couple of minutes and no response. I decided to leave and asked the other man to handle the matter.

Francistown was 440kms away; the trip was eventless. I stopped twice. But the beauty of this morning's ride was to see the sun emerge behind the clouds from the sky on the East at exactly 5:37 am.  Firstly, it was the deep orange-red rays, Secondly, the Sun majestically clothed in deep orange-red colours. It was simply beautiful.  I don't often pay attention to the Sun rising, yet today I did.  It is these small links that make a difference on a trip like this.  I strode on arriving in Francistown by 8:30 am. It was hard to find something to eat this early; It was Sunday and Francistown was waking up very slowly. Why the hurry. I found a quarter chicken eventually, bought some water and biscuits and was off to Kazungula.

About 200km before Kazungula, the road conditions changed — patches of tarmac and mostly ‘dirt road’ as we call it in South Africa. I was thankful that I did the Honda dirt road training. I could ride this patches standing on the bike. Sometimes it was scary but I guess you get used to it. My only stops were for petrol. I did see some elephants on the way. I arrived at Kazungula at 2:30pm. That is when my troubles started.

A young man came up to me and said he was willing to help me complete the process of border crossing. I am a widely traveled man but it was a completely a different story at Kazungula. The ferry could not take my 1 dollar bill notes. They insisted on a bigger denomination. My paying spree started then — 5$ first payment ferry charge. I went through customs then 10$ road tax. This time the border official accepted my one dollar bills. I did not mind the paying if that was how I was going to get through. The problem is everyone was trying to have a piece of my money: they saw rand and dollars and not the person. In the process, what would take you a couple of minutes to complete, took me until 5:30 pm at every turn someone was trying to complicate my travel by directly attempting to profit from me. If this can happen to me, what would it be like to the rest of you? I did not think it was going to be smooth when I set out to this odyssey ― pains and joys are daughter and son of adventure. To spare you the details, a young Revenue official who simply had a thing for bikes got into conversation with me ― his blessed hand did the rest and I was on my way to Livingstone 60kms way having paid nothing more than the required fees and musing whether Dr. David Livingstone had these same problems.

It appears to me that custom officials collude with all kinds of riff-raffs to get money out of unsuspecting travelers. What astounded me was the number of young men at the border post. What are they all doing here? Simple logic, account for every penny you spend at the border. Sometime it might not be that clear.

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Taking the Plunge

I went to bed late and dog tired; it had been a busy day sorting out money issues, medicines, last minute chores. It wasn’t a laboured sleep but also one not so smooth as I drifted in and out of sleep.   I woke up the following morning, loaded the bike and hit the road.

A group of friends were waiting in Gaborone, but among other things, exhaustion set in. I guess it was the tension of having to prepare for the trip. I decided to spend two days in Gaborone. The good news though: The big day had at last arrived.

Loading Scorpion I 

Loading Scorpion II

Loading Scorpion III

I had not done all my packing when I went to bed. I woke up by 4:00 a.m. to complete this most cumbersome task. While I was showering, the troubling question was: How do you pack things you will need to last seven weeks on a bike. I had read on the Wilddog Forum about what to include and exclude. The ideal is always easy to talk about, but I’m afraid quite divorced from an actual trip. I had to take food and bike emergency stuff, gifts for folks, etc, yet you can only carry so much. In the end, with the help of Fidele, my brother we loaded Scorpion.

En route to Kazungula

First crossing of the Capricorn

Great Skies

Meanwhile, Andy had agreed to accompany me to Tlokweng border (Botswana). In all the time I have known him, if he says 7:00 it means 7:00. I was annoyed with myself that I was only 50% ready when he roared onto the driveway on his DL 1000 Vstrom. The worst thing to do was to be uncharitable to a friend going this far. Let me spare you the details.

Andy and Myself before we Parted Ways

Andy, Myself and Etienne

Andy Departing

About three weeks ago, I decided to involve some form of media in my Johannesburg-Kampala Odyssey. I communicated with Udo Caralse – 702 Talk Show presenter. So yesterday morning I was back on 702 radio to happily announce to all ‘johannesburgers’ of eminent departure that morning, naturally this ate into my packing time.

During the packing, I could not remember where I had kept my dollars. You know how things tend to go wrong at the last moment. I had the money in the morning, but now I just could not find it. Fidele, his loving wife and I looked everywhere but all in vain. If I needed anything now it was intense focus and deep calm. Some minutes later I remembered the money was in a side pocket of my camera bag ― the relief was enormous.

Andy and I agreed that our departure was scheduled for 8:00 a.m. I wanted to officially start off from Wits University. We were running late. I was hungry and had last eaten the previous evening. In haste to start on time, I forfeited breakfast. I was amazed where I got all the energy to keep going.

It was clear except for some mushroom shaped clouds hugging the sky. A hot day was in the making. Clad in my riding gear, it was a spectacle seeing my neighbours coming to bid me farewell, beginning with Grahams, then Paul, then Jennifer and finally I hugged the Fideles and slid on the saddle onto which I had tethered my Airhawk to massage my sitting apparatus during the many and long hours of sitting in days to come. I need to say that the Airhawk is one wise investment I made with reference to extras on the bike.

Without much ceremony we roared off and surprisingly we were on time. We were at Wits School of Education in 20 minutes. On arrival, I set the GPS and adjusted the odometer to count from zero. At 8:05am. We rode-off down Empire road towards Soweto and eventually Lichhtenburg to avoid road tolls. We cruised mostly at 120-140kms. Then it hit me for first time that it was real ― the odyssey. 

Our first pit-stop was at Lichtenburg for petrol and a cold drink with Etienne who was to accompany us to Zeerust. The ride to Zeerust was eventless. Andy and Etienne bid me farewell; we parted ways. I don’t know if I felt the loneliness overwhelm me at that time because I’d always banked on Andy in case of breakdown. One of the last things he gave me was a repair manual. I did not want to think of it. I kept it away and hoped I would never have to make recourse to it. Without much ado, I set off for the border post. Cruising at a constant 120km I soon got to the Tlokweng Gate. I parted with 110 pula on the Botswana side, and my green light ushering me towards Gaborone came on. It was scorching hot. I was sweating very much.

In South Africa, I had relied on my phone for communication. Now I was alone. I needed a phone to call my friend. At my first stop, I had 100 pula, the call was 1 pula for a minute. Always carry small change; it saves a lot of discomfort. I rode to Riverwalk shopping mall. Remember I was hungry; I knew something sugary would boost my energy levels. Ice-cream – the joy of ordinary niceties! In that sweltering heat, it was the most desirable thing.  The V-strom, especially a loaded one is a captivating sight. I think it is true for all bikes. They are always a spectacle to behold. On the panniers it reads ‘Johannesburg’ – ‘Kampala’.

“So you are really going to Kampala?” a man asked.
“Hmmm,” I mumbled between mouthfuls of ice-cream.

Later, I asked him if I could find a public phone. He said I could use his cell to call my friend, Jonathan. For the complete stranger that he was, with loads of generosity for yet another stranger, I was totally humbled. He later took me all the way to my friend’s place, where I had a cold bath, braai meal and a warm bed. I simply passed out; ‘slept’ would be an understatement.

For the next two days, I rested.  On Saturday, I woke up feeling like I had borrowed someone else’s body. Fatigue to the bone connived well with Jonathan’s encouragement for me to rest. The Livingstone leg of the trip could wait, the company of friends Jonathan and his loving girlfriend was too much to forfeit; not yet! More important, I had time to tell this story. I had ridden 469kms and used 28 liters of petrol.

First Resting Station

Gabarone Skyline

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